Trying to manage time.

I think I may be overestimating how much time I have in a day. That, or I'm foolishly hoping I'll gain some hither-to-undiscovered sense of self control. Right now, I'm engaged in the following: a part time job, part time novel writing, playing Minecraft with my buddy, and now I've also re-subscribed to World of Warcraft (eep). Plus, I've just started watching Downton Abbey season 2, started working on puzzles with Becky, begun reading Double Dead: Bad Blood by Chuck Wendig, and tried out the whole steampunk cosplay accessory thing (which you can read about here).

Ah, Minecraft, you are the Legos for my adult heart.

I've never been very good at managing my time and prioritizing. I usually end up playing World of Warcraft for hours because it's easy on the brain, which makes me depressed because I'm ignoring my writing, which then leads to more World of Warcraft (it's sort of like chocolate cake).

Curse you World of Warcraft!

But not this time! I've set up parental controls (yes, you read that right) on World of Warcraft, essentially banning myself from playing during my writing hours. Becky has the secret password, which I hope she keeps, well... secret. If I can just keep each activity within its normal hours I should be fine, though it feels like trying to police the border between North and South Korea. Sometimes I just gotta say, "Look Minecraft, you had your 45 minutes, now its Downton Abbey's turn. No, stop crying! Ack! World of Warcraft, put that down before you break it!"

Anyway, I realize that having so many enjoyable hobbies (and an enjoyable future career in writing *crosses fingers*) is probably one of the best problems a person can have, so I won't complain except to say I wish I was born with a bigger and more responsible brain.

So that's what I'm up to right now. What are your vices?

Short Story: Darkness by the Funhouse

I thought I'd write something that wasn't fun or fantastical. I was reading an article today about job satisfaction, and how amusement park workers are among the lowest tier. It made me think about what it would really be like to be one them, and I found myself writing a short story. So here it is. Warning: there are some relatively adult subjects and language.

Seth rubbed his hands together against the cold wind. His knuckles were chapped, and small cracks were beginning to open up. His skin itched horribly, but he couldn't afford the gloves or even moisturizer to solve the problem. He blew on his numb fingers and wiped his running nose as he squinted his eyes against the wind. Red and brown leaves skittered across the asphalt and the skeletal trees creaked back and forth. It was well into November already, and even without snow, it was freezing. Raging Funland had decided to stay open through the fall this year, trying to squeeze the last few dollars out of the amusement park-going public. Seth was one of the few employees that had somehow ended up with a double shift this weekend, and he hadn't had the nerve to refuse. He was currently on hour four of his shift minding the Funhouse, pressing the cold button to advance the rail cars as people climbed in and out.

Seth knew he couldn't complain. His mother didn't work, so it was up to him to support the two of them. The extra shift would be just enough to keep the heat on for another month. Not to mention when he tried to get out of extra shifts, she yelled at him. He wasn't exactly afraid of her, she was too heavy to get off the couch, but he hated when she was mad. It was too loud. All he wanted was to be left alone when he got home, so he could go to his room without talking to her. He spent all his time in there, drawing or sitting on the bed. At least he could keep that much of the apartment clean.

A group of teenagers a couple of years younger than him walked past, laughing loudly as they waited in line outside the Funhouse. Seth watched them bitterly. They were all happy and warm, most of them attractive and probably popular. One of the girls in a pink parka was wearing tight jeans, and Seth absently watched her behind as she walked past. One of her friends glanced back and saw him, so he jerked his eyes away and scratched at a paint fleck on the black metal button stand. He felt his cheeks heat up as their laughter pummeled him. They were probably cheerleaders, and he hated cheerleaders, even if he couldn't help but watch them.

He pressed the car button again, not caring to give the mandatory safety speech. If anyone was stupid enough to stick their arm out while the cars turned a corner, it served them right. More people crowded past, their inane babble obnoxious to his ears. It was better than the Funhouse music though. Sometimes when there was no one in line, Seth could hear every off-pitch note from the metal clarion, repeated over and over. He wanted to curl up in a ball and scream. He tried his best not to.

How could all these people be happy? Seth watched the group of girls get into a car, hating himself for how much he wanted to look at them. He couldn't help it; it felt good to imagine the bodies under their clothes, and he almost never felt good. He rubbed the scars on his wrist, feeling the raised, bumpy skin. That was another thing he couldn't seem to help. His mother never noticed what he did, not even when he left the blood on the sink overnight.

"Miller!" an angry voice said suddenly from behind him, and Seth jumped. He turned around and cringed at the sight of his supervisor's bulk advancing quickly toward him. Bill Masterson had a gut that hung far over his belt, so large he couldn't zip up the ugly brown windbreaker he was wearing. He had a thick black beard like a wire brush and chew-stained teeth. The man stopped so close to Seth that his rancid breath washed over him. "Are you reviewing the safety guidelines for every group?" he demanded.

"Yes," Seth lied.

"You little shit," Bill gritted, and Seth looked at the ground quickly. "I know you aren't, I was just listening! I can't believe you just lied to me! Do you ever say it?"

"Yeah."

"Bullshit," his supervisor spat. "I warned you about this last time didn't I? My ass is on the line when you lazy piss-offs don't follow the rules! Do you want me to lose my job?"

Seth wanted very badly to say yes. He hated Bill Masterson more than anyone else, and listening to him yell was worse than his mother ever was. The man losing his job would make Seth genuinely happy for once. Instead he shook his head. "No," he whispered.

"Well it doesn't matter," Bill said, "You're fired Miller. Get your ass out of here."

Seth looked up in shock. "What?"

"You're done, dude."

"You can't, I need this job!" Seth sputtered, knowing from the stinging in his eyes that he was about to start crying.

"Not my problem," his supervisor said, raising a hand dismissively as he turned to walk away, "I'll send Rita to take over, and I want you to leave as soon as she gets here."

Seth stared at the man's retreating back, a fire flowing through his veins. He had never wanted to hurt anyone so badly as he did now. He clenched his fists until they started to shake. Bill got into a golf cart and sped off before taking a turn behind a building, where he disappeared from sight. Seth let his shoulders slump. What was he going to do? Fight Bill Masterson? He let out a gasp as impotent tears of anger fell down his cheeks.

He waited until Rita came, not even looking at the girls as they exited the Funhouse noisily, then he walked slowly back to the main office where he would turn in his Raging Funland polo shirt. What was he going to tell his mother?

How we should all be viewing our "first drafts".

Lately I've been in a funk. Yes, I just used that word. At some point in the last few months, I realized that I don't know myself as well as I thought. I'm not able to gauge when my depression will kick in, and unlike a few years ago, I can no longer turn it off and on like a switch by listening to some posi-core. Right now I'm feeling better about writing, and a few fun ideas have popped into my head about The Sometimes Sword. But I can't guarantee that next week I'll feel the same. It's a reality I need to face in order to overcome it someday.

As for my blog, I think I may just need to suck it up and write about writing, not the lack thereof. Who knows, maybe it will eventually bring me back into the right state of mind. Today I wanted to focus on editing, specifically when you realize that the editing you are doing is a dead end. At some point a writer might stop in the middle of the second or third edit, sit back, and realize that the story they wanted to write has never been further away from reality than at that exact moment.

You wrote your first draft, maybe you gardened it, watching as it grew and took shape. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way the story also got away from you. Perhaps it still turned out well enough, but your original vision got lost in the metaphorical grocery store. Along with the usual horrible prose, shudder-inducing dialogue and other things that plague first drafts, you find yourself trying to find where your vision went. A lot of time can be wasted with this process, and even worse, you may find yourself struggling to deal with a fragmented and revision-heavy manuscript, purely dead weight. I found myself in just this situation a month or so ago. At the time I decided to give up the book indefinitely and move on to something else. I've since changed my mind, for many reasons (you can read about them in some of my previous posts).

So what do you do when you suddenly find yourself in this position? Some people give up, thinking they just aren't good enough writers, others move on to something else (like I almost did), and some people just keep plugging away at it, endlessly revising for years and years. I like to think there is another way. Chuck Wendig at Terribleminds.com has these wonderful lists he does, usually titled along the lines of "25 Reasons Why Writers Blank" and so on. Recently there has been a theme throughout them (possibly because of NaNoWriMo coming up) where he focuses on the purpose of a first/rough draft. I think many writers, myself included, think of the first draft as the stepping stone to the second draft, then on to the third and so on; something to be improved over time, incrementally revising each version until it shines. Naturally, this can lead to the aforementioned years of editing, or giving up.

Nowadays, I'm suddenly not so sure that this is how it's intended to work. What if--and stay with me here--what if the first draft was meant to be a practice draft, and no more? What if a writer sat down and pounded out a 60k word manuscript just to clear his/her head? We all know what it's like to have an entire world, story, and several characters floating around all schizophrenia-like in our brains, especially when we first develop a story. It's sometimes painful, often confusing, and always frustrating to have so much information stored away without an outlet. What if that first draft was the outlet, and not the first step toward the final result? Crazy huh? (Maybe it's just me, maybe you all knew that back when you were five years-old, and I'm simply horribly behind the times.)

This is something I want experiment with on The Sometimes Sword. What will happen if I take a machete (metaphorically) and hack this book apart, ruthlessly throwing away any crap I encounter, and trim it down to its elements? I'm hoping this will relieve the dead weight, destroy the fragmentation, leaving only the scenes with worth, ready to be studied and arranged how they need to be (maybe even into a new book). Perhaps I can bring my story back to the original vision I had, before it got away from me.

I haven't actually done this yet, but I've been thinking a lot lately (thinking about a story is almost as important as writing it) and I think I have some fun ideas that will add a lot: considering new characters, introducing new plot lines, redefining the antagonist and her motivations, rearranging events, changing character personalities and backgrounds, etc. Another thing I want to bring back is the description of the world and locations, which fell out along the way. I want to dive into the history of the world and highlight the crazy creatures and individuals within it. This last bit is actually why I initially began to write the story, but in the course of devising plot and (struggling) to develop believable characters, this fell by the wayside. (I admit, Fablehaven was the series that sparked this particular desire. I've always had a soft spot for the "magical menagerie" type fantasies, and I wanted to write one myself). I need to bring it back, because it was what made writing The Sometimes Sword fun. Without it, I ended up where I am now with the book, depressed, bored, and pessimistic.

Back to the main point of this post however, my first draft has been treated as a diamond in the rough, as opposed to the wet clay sculpture it really is. There is no cutting and polishing of a precious gem, only demolition and rebuilding, mixing it back into itself. Now that the ideas have been vomited onto the paper, and my brain-clutter cleared away, I can begin writing the real first draft, the one that will eventually become the final manuscript. At least, that's the plan.

What do you think? Are you stuck in a draft that you think is the diamond in the rough, but in reality, is simply the first clay pot that you need to mix back in and start anew?

Difficulty writing, and what I need to do about it. (Suggestions are welcome.)

Lately I've been having a hard time sitting down to write. I've written about this before, I know, but it has since become worse, to the point of complete stagnation in my writing. As some of you know, I recently decided to shelve The Sometimes Sword, of which I was on the third draft. You can read about it here. I have started work on a new book, but I find myself wondering sometimes if I'm really cut out for this. I have always heard (and I have said myself) that a writer has to slog forward, and just do it. It's good advice for sure, logical and all that. But it misses an important point. What if you can't slog forward, because you can't seem to put your fingers on the keyboard? What if every time you sit down you feel sick, and ashamed? What if so many doubts clog your brain that you can't seem to recall any words other than self-recriminations?

Can I really call myself a writer when I let two, three months go by without actually, you know, writing? Thankfully as of today I started once more on writing the actual words of my new first draft, but how long will that last? How long until I look at what I've done and start hating it?

My goal right now, and it feels so inadequate, is to write at least once a week. This is a far cry from 5 pages a day like my last book. But with school and work I'm mentally exhausted every night. (I hate you Philosophy 1200.) It feels like writing would be a bad idea most of the time. I rationalize that the stress isn't worth it, that I as an adult can choose to do what seems to be the easiest thing in the evenings, and if that's not writing, then so be it.

Somehow, I know that's all wrong. I know it is. But it persists. Does anyone have suggestions, or even similar thoughts? I want to hear about them, and maybe what you are doing to overcome them.

Getting back that writing "spark".

Like I said in yesterday's post, I really need to get back to work on my book. I think I need to start another set of short term goals and perhaps a daily work requirement. It's been long enough that I'm a tad scared that I lost the spark (by "long" I mean it has been a month since college started, and my editing time has been severely limited).


True, there have been times when I have had... well, time, but something always holds me back. Part of it is Writer's Depression, but mostly I think I may be burned out on that particular story. I've tried to begin new books in the meantime, with little success. (One of them might still be written someday because of a pretty fun setting, but all I could think of while I wrote in it was The Sometimes Sword.) It's a dilemma, for sure.


I'm starting to think that I need to do what I had to do when writing the first draft: knuckle down and get over it. I can't afford to let writing become less a part of me. I need that spark back, and sometimes that takes work. Painful, painful work.


So tonight I begin again in earnest. My goal is a final draft ready for submission by the end of the year. I will make this happen, and I will not give up until I have at least fifty rejection letters. Less would be fine by me. So what if this is only my second real attempt at a book. No author's story is the same, and I plan to go all out!


What about you? What are your short-term writing goals?

Writer's Depression is worse than Writer's Block.

So today was supposed to be a post about Setting, and it might still be, but first I want to relate some thoughts about depression. Now, when I say "depression", I'm not talking about the generic kind you take a pill for (though they share a lot of similarities). What I really mean is the feeling of worthlessness (also known as "suckiness") that many (all) writers worth their salt feel at some point.

In fact, it's the very thing I'm battling with with at the moment. It has been several weeks since I did anything meaningful in my book, and it feels horrible.

Everyone has heard of Writer's Block (when a writer sits down to write and simply can't. It may be lack of ideas or something else unknown even to them). Sometimes it's so hard to get past that writers go days or weeks without writing anything. Writer's Depression is similar, but I think it deserves its own category.

You see, Writer's Depression isn't a lack of ideas, or a bad plot, in fact it may be the opposite. The writer's brain may be brimming with ideas, overflowing into his eyes like greasy sweat. But a million ideas do no good if they seem to have no merit. There come times when you look at your work and all you see is crap. Vomited-up bilge from a sea monster that just ate Justin Bieber. It's literally painful to read what you had done at times like this. You can't help but believe that it's all swill, unworthy to be read by the meanest high school jock. There seems to be a physical force holding you back from placing fingers to the keyboard, and a mental revulsion to looking at the screen.

This can come about from many sources. Some people may be learning to write faster than they can actually, you know, write. They look at the last two chapters and cringe, because they've already surpassed their skill from a week ago. (Yes, this actually happens.) Others may know something is wrong with their story, but not be able to diagnose it. This is especially frustrating, and very easy to become overwhelmed by. Sometimes your plot and scenes (even simple ones) become tangled up so thoroughly in your brain that you just want to throw it all away, then burn the dumpster. Sometimes it's the result of what someone else says (this is especially dangerous). If you have others reading your work (such as a writing group or alpha readers) it can be very easy to let their usually well-intentioned critiques bury deep in your heart like poison-tipped arrows. The most innocent remark about pacing, dialogue, or even your writing's voice can make you want to retreat into your shell and block out the world, because you know, everyone's a bunch of ass-hats. You put yourself into what you wrote dang it, and when your readers inspected it, they found it lacking (those jerks). (This is not the way it should be, but sometimes it is, despite our most logical effort. Remember that your work is not you, and it's not your baby. It is a flawed manuscript that you are responsible for improving. It's hard to see it that way, I know.)

There is no easy way around it, no magical potion to wash away the shame of Writer's Depression. There is a nearly physical pain sometimes in powering through it, and heaps of mental agony. I'm not exaggerating one bit, believe me. It can be worse for those that already have a tendency to get "down" about things in the first place (like me). The only solution is to keep on, persevere, and never give up.The pain of doing so is what separates us from the hipster in a scarf at the coffee shop. Said hipster feels nothing but self-congratulation at the amazing work he will produce, and thus does nothing to learn and improve himself. On the other hand, we who experience Writer's Depression can't go on without re-evaluating ourselves and what we produce. This does eventually lead to higher-quality work.

In conclusion, I suppose my point is this: you aren't alone with your thoughts of word-genocide. As much crap as you think your story is, it probably isn't. Don't kill it, but strive to improve it, and keep your head above water. Sometimes you need to take a break, walk away for a few days, or work on something else like a blog (aha, insight!). You'll come back refreshed, ready to cut the crap out, and write better stuff in.